Pet
Loss
The final act of compassion is
also the hardest
by
Michele Greene
 Euthanasia.
It’s a powerful, difficult word,
and carries so much weight and responsibility.
I was lucky with my first dog, Inda; she
died in her sleep in 1995 at the age of
13 after a long illness. Now, with multiple
senior pets, the issue of euthanasia seems
to be a constant specter around the house.
I’ve become familiar with all the
regimens that accompany ailing animals:
subcutaneous fluids for kidney function,
force feeding with syringes, insulin for
diabetes, steroid and holistic treatment
for dysplasia, Pepcid for digestive problems,
acupuncture, glucosamine and MSM supplements,
chemo for the ones battling cancer. I’ve
had to put down five animals in the past
three years, three in the last six months.
I’ve done what we all do, exhausted
every option and maxed out my credit cards
paying for something, anything, that will
keep them alive even a little bit longer.
When my cat, Meg, finally succumbed to
cancer, I took her in for a late night,
final visit to the vet. When he left the
room to prepare the syringes, she turned
her head to me and laid it in my hand.
Her meaning was unmistakably clear. She
was saying, “Thank you, it’s
time.” After that experience, I
began to rethink the terrible privilege
of euthanasia.
My dog, Albert, a coyote/shepherd mix,
is 17 years old. I found him wandering
the streets eight years ago. My vet estimated
he was close to ten years old and most
of his front teeth were mysteriously gone.
He was scrawny, dirty and timid, with
the uncanny ability to disappear into
the landscape of the yard in the blink
of an eye. At ten years old, he could
jump an eight-foot fence in one leap.
Albert is the dog everyone gravitates
to. He always seems to have a smile on
his face, his mouth slightly open in a
grin. He is so intelligent that I often
tell people if I came downstairs one morning
and he asked for a cup of coffee, I wouldn’t
be surprised; I’d get him a mug.
Over the last two years, however, Albert
developed dementia. Now he wanders in
circles until he curls up to sleep, wherever
he happens to land. He forgot how to play
fetch about five months ago, yet he still
stands next to ball or stuffed animal,
but then looks at the toy at his feet,
unaware of what to do next.
His kidneys began to slow down several
months ago and he now drinks more water
and wears a diaper when he is in the house.
His bladder can be unreliable, and the
diaper is drenched every morning. He moves
stiffly and cannot navigate even a small
stairway very well. Initially, as his
memory began to fail and confusion set
in, he was distressed by the change. He
knew something was wrong. But now he has
passed beyond that awareness and seems
content, if confused. His eyes are still
bright and open, without that veiled tightness
that comes with pain. From time to time,
he has a flash of memory; he remembers
to go to the door when he has to go out,
or picks up a favorite old toy. He likes
to be outside with the other dogs, roaming
slowly around the garden or sleeping on
the patio.
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Published
in the June/July 2005 issue of Animal
Wellness
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